


Who Wore It Best?

by thebearking



Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Black!Reader - Freeform, Body Image, Drabble, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Gender-neutral Reader, M/M, Other, POV Second Person, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, Romantic Fluff, Self-Esteem Issues, Sharing Clothes, Sweet T'Challa (Marvel), Wakandan!Reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-19 21:46:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14246418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebearking/pseuds/thebearking
Summary: T'Challa just wants you to feel comfortable in your own skin.





	Who Wore It Best?

**Author's Note:**

> finally wrote something marvel-related! i saw bp for a 5th time (and i met ruth carter, the costume designer!) so i felt inspired again! here, the reader is gender-neutral, wakandan/black, and implied to be plus-size, body dysphoric, or otherwise insecure about their body. interpret however you will, and enjoy!

“Absolutely not.”

“My love—”

“Where is Shuri, hm?” you demanded, scanning the lab for her. “Watching from behind a camera, recording this all?”

“No, not at all! In fact she thought of this herself. Just try it on—”

“No, T’Challa, I’m not going to put it on and become the laughing stock of Wakanda.” You turned away from him each time he came near you, folding your arms indignantly. You knew he would never do something so cruel; perhaps it was just your own self-doubt that was holding you back from doing what you had always secretly wanted to do.

“My love, have I ever lied to you?” T’Challa said soothingly, approaching you from behind. This time you allowed him to wrap an arm around your waist, pulling you close. “Have I ever wished to hurt you at all?” He cupped your chin in one hand, tipping your face up toward his. “Trust me.”

You searched his eyes for any ill will and, finding none, sighed, stepping back and allowing T’Challa to drape the necklace of silver claws around your neck. You silently willed it to go on, though it was still under T’Challa’s command. Slowly, the suit unfolded, spreading from your neck down and upward to cover your face, your shoulders, your torso, your limbs. You expected it to be stuffy under the mask, but you found you could breathe perfectly, and see and hear perfectly too. You took T’Challa’s offered hand, and he led you over to the full-length mirror on the wall near other drafts of his suit.

The sight of yourself nearly took your breath away. You were clothed head to toe in black and silver, much more formfitting than any article of clothing you owned. You looked at yourself from a few angles; the suit moved so fluidly with your motions that it could have been a second skin. It took you a few moments to bitterly admit that you did look good. You looked fierce, from the almost comical ears to the mysterious white eyes. The suit clung to places you had never wanted anything to cling to, and yet you felt amazing in it, like it had been made for you. Like you were worthy of it.

“So?” T’Challa prompted, watching you with a soft smile on his face while you gazed at yourself in wonder.

With a flick of your wrists you unsheathed your claws and posed dramatically for him, as if in battle. Though of course, you were no warrior, only a sculptor from the Merchant Tribe, and so the most you could muster was lifting your hands up in what you hoped was a menacing gesture. “How do I look?” you asked him, imitating the commanding deepness of his voice.

T’Challa chuckled, stepping forward to place his hands on your waist. “Better than me, I bet,” he answered. “You look incredible. Strong. Dignified.”

You leaned into his touch, sheathing the claws. “Maybe the cat ears are a bit much,” you teased, wishing he could see your smirk from behind the suit.

“Say another word about my cat ears and I will show you no mercy,” he murmured, his voice taking on the dark and sultry tone that gave you chills.

“Isn’t it the one in the suit who makes the rules, my king?” you quipped back.

T’Challa grinned. “You’re feeling cheeky today, aren’t you, my love? Perhaps you need a lesson in propriety.” He paused, bowing his head and playing along. “With your permission, of course.”

You shrugged, eyeing him from head to toe, feeling particularly emboldened in such noble attire. You placed a hand on his chest and traced the swirling design embroidered on the front of his shirt. “I could be persuaded.”

And T’Challa could certainly persuade.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!


End file.
